Across the Line of Light
by CrimsonStarbird
Summary: She was inside looking out, and he was outside looking in. Jellal/Levy oneshot.


_**A/N:** So, something a bit different from me this time. I'm trying to get better at writing concisely, and though I'm not quite sure I achieved that here (I was aiming for about 3,000 words and ended up with over 11,000), I'm still very happy with how this oneshot came out, so I thought I'd share it anyway. Jellal/Levy is a pairing which is very close to my heart (I don't care if they don't speak to each other in canon; it's totally a legit pairing) so if anyone out there is willing to give them a chance, then I hope you enjoy this little story!_

 _This story is set during the ball at the end of the Grand Magic Games. The details of that event aren't important, because I've altered most relevant parts anyway, but the timing of it is. ~CS_

* * *

 **Across the Line of Light**

By CrimsonStarbird

* * *

Sometimes, it all got a bit too much.

It wasn't the attention that bothered her. If she'd wanted a quiet life, she'd never have picked magic as her career path, nor Fairy Tail as the map with which to navigate it. Sure, the guild's riotous reputation might have grown in the years since she'd signed up, but she had grown with it: she had earned her place on Tenrou Island; had stood shoulder to shoulder with her comrades against Acnologia; had placed herself between seven rampaging dragons and the city's evacuees – until the shy bookworm who had once cocooned herself within tales of heroism and self-sacrifice had emerged a dazzling butterfly, strong of heart and magic, who brought that bravery out of the storybook's pages and devoted every ounce of it towards making the world a little bit brighter.

But that wasn't to say that it didn't, sometimes, all get a bit too much.

Everything was always so dramatic with her guild. Everything had to _mean_ something. She wasn't allowed to simply celebrate with her trusted friends, free to be herself without worrying about who was watching or how her every action was going to be interpreted in the days to come. No – in the wake of the dragon attack, when all she wanted to do was curl up with a good book in the presence of those she loved and feel safe, the guild had been invited to a ball at the king's palace.

It was a great honour, they said. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It was, although she was reluctant to admit it, the fulfilment of a dream she'd held ever since she'd first read the story of Cinderella, sprawled out in front of the hearth long past her bedtime – for while she'd quickly grown out of the idea of meeting her one true love at a masquerade ball, the dancing and the outfits and the _splendour_ had never quite lost their appeal. It was the closest one could get to the fictional realms inhabited by those fairy-tale princesses.

It was also so damn _complicated._

There was so much about formal dances that the old romantic stories glossed over. Those young heroines never had to contend with the difficulty of asking a male friend to dance, because even though it was a perfectly platonic custom, the risk of disrupting the delicate emerging relationships within the group was too great. They had no advice for how to gently turn down repeated invitations to dance from two childhood friends, for even though it would be wonderful to take a turn on that gleaming floor with a trusted partner, they would inevitably misinterpret the gesture of friendship as a glimmer of false hope. They failed to mention what to do if Prince Charming didn't even show up.

They did not talk about the awkwardness of loitering by the buffet until even the serving staff were regarding her with pity; the envy of seeing her friends slow-turning on the dancefloor without a care in the world; the hope that someone would come along and ask her to dance – no politics, no hidden meaning, just that medieval ritual playing out like it was supposed to – and the self-loathing at the fact that all the logic in the world couldn't smother her vain and childish wish.

Oh, the palace was breath-taking, and the banquet sumptuous, and the music exquisite, and the radiance of her friends all dressed up and happy and so very alive lifted her heart, but…

But it wasn't quite enough to bury the feeling of _not-belonging._

Everyone else was able to relax in the ballroom without fear of being judged. They could break protocol – to the point of starting a brawl in a palace! – and think nothing of it, for they were merely being themselves and the world had to adjust to _them._ There were even those who could fail to turn up to this unbelievable opportunity without feeling like they were missing out. They didn't overthink everything, like she did.

No, she was the only one for whom this situation wasn't straightforward.

So things had been on the other side of the line of light.

It had taken longer than it should have done for her to muster up the courage to cross it. She walked across the terrace with her shoulders slightly hunched and her weight through the balls of her feet, making herself a little smaller and a little quieter without conscious intent, as if those same instincts which guided her in the heat of battle were convinced that she wasn't allowed to be here – that crossing the line of light was a personal affront to the king who had so graciously invited guild mages into his hallowed halls.

But no alarm bells rang; no shouts of rage or warning came. There were no guards here, after all. They were with the king, or supervising the revellers, or patrolling the perimeter of the palace grounds. They weren't lurking in the unlit gardens behind the ballroom.

That space was reserved for those who didn't belong.

Halfway across the terrace, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. The ballroom she had withdrawn from was a whirlpool of light. From this distance, the dancers were snapshots of colour as they flitted between the huge windows; violet, aquamarine, rose, onyx; a coruscating rainbow separated into its constituent ribbons and free to flow and re-entwine at the orchestra's behest. The music was oddly muffled, as if it had been confined to the lavish hall, along with the light and the colour and the life.

The great double doors behind her hung open, spilling a pool of liquid gold upon the terrace. It seemed to soak into the flagstones, illuminating nothing that it did not fall upon directly. The line of light, painted upon the ground: a clear demarcation between the glow of the festivities and the darkness of the night; between civil pressure and quiet freedom; between attention and invisibility.

No one had followed her out, so she walked on.

The ball had taken up that day's colour allowance, leaving nothing but greys and silvers for the palace gardens. Shadows draped mystery over lawn ornaments and topiary trees. A faint breeze rustled the dress around her ankles; encouraged the blooming branches into a slow, hypnotic dance. She thought it every bit as enchanting as the ballroom she had left behind.

At the top of the steps leading from the terrace to the first of countless lawns, she paused to gather up her skirts. The moon could not compete with the artificial molten-gold her eyes had grown accustomed to; darkness and borrowed heels conspired to render every step treacherous.

The dress was borrowed too. When she had been instructed to bring party clothes to Crocus, she had been anticipating the easy-going fun of her guild's infamous feasts, not a formal ball at the palace. She was wearing _silver,_ for heaven's sake. It didn't suit her at all. She preferred summer colours, simple and bright – not reams of shimmering silver cascading from her right shoulder, traversing the sequin-studded rapids of the bodice, and spilling in silken waves around her ankles. The princess had assured her that it accentuated the colour of her hair, and she had accepted it with a strained smile, because she knew she should have been glad that they'd had anything lying around the palace that fit her at all.

Only as she crossed the line of light had she begun to feel truly grateful for the dress. Outside the ballroom, it didn't glitter like some ostentatious chandelier, but flowed soft and ghostly beneath the moon.

She stepped down onto the lawn, feeling her tension ease as the trimmed grass gave beneath her feet. She felt as though she could lose herself in these endless regal gardens. Nothing moved in the serene darkness. Nothing but her and the branches that swayed in greeting – and the shadow rising from the nearest alabaster bench.

She saw it at the same time it saw her, and both stilled at once. She blinked, and the draconic wings her panicked mind had added to it dissolved, leaving behind the silhouette of an ordinary man. He was dressed neither as a palace guard nor a ballroom dancer, wrapped instead in a heavy cloak emblazoned with a guild mark she recognized at once, though few not of her guild would have been able to do so. Dark, unruly hair stirred faintly in the breeze. That distinctive tattoo stole down the right side of his face, black against moon-bleached skin.

Although she had relaxed again upon identifying him as an ally, he had not. There was a gritty tension etched into his half-aggressive stance, caught in that primal moment between fight and flight, and she raised her empty palms instinctively in the universal gesture of peace.

"It's okay," she urged him, but he did not move, and she realized at last that it wasn't her magic he was afraid of. Feeling foolish, she twisted to show him the Fairy Tail mark that the ballgown's low back revealed to the world, tapping it twice. _I'm a friend to your guild,_ the gesture said.

When she turned back, he had visibly relaxed. "I thought I recognized you," he said, and his voice was quiet and unexpectedly musical. "But I wasn't sure… You were there when we met your guild on that training camp before the Games, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was. Though," she added wryly, "I suspect I looked rather different when I was writhing in pain from that magic Ultear used on us."

He was silent for a moment; just long enough for her to worry that her awkward stab at humour had come across as an accusation. In the end, though, he simply gave a faint smile. "Quite."

She returned the smile somewhat nervously. "Still, I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Levy McGarden."

"Jellal Fernandes."

She resisted the urge to say _I know_ as they shook hands; he was merely obeying the situation's social rules. Even the handshake, that old and clumsy method of greeting, didn't seem out of place with the way she was dressed, or the polite way in which he acted. She wondered what he was doing here. He certainly hadn't escaped from the ball like she had – a man of his profession wouldn't have been invited to the king's palace, never mind that he had thrown himself into the battle against the dragons just as quickly as any of the mages from legal guilds.

"Are you waiting for someone?" she blurted out. "I can run in and grab them, if you'd like."

"No, that's alright," he answered her, every bit as calm as before. "It's kind of you to offer, but I'm not looking for anyone."

"Then why are you here?"

The rudeness of her sudden query didn't seem to bother him. "Curiosity, I suppose." His gaze passed over her shoulder, and she knew he was looking up at the ballroom, where the windows glowed like a sun dragon's scales and the music murmured an ethereal lullaby for the gardens. "Meredy wanted to be alone for a while, and I had nowhere in particular to go. I heard the liveliness coming from the palace and thought I might as well investigate."

"The king is throwing a ball to thank the guild mages for their efforts against the dragons. Everyone who competed in the Grand Magic Games has been invited."

His gaze shifted back to her; the faint smile returned to his lips. "I had deduced that much."

Of _course_ he had. "Oh… sorry," she said, feeling foolish for the third time since they'd been acquainted.

If he noticed, he gave no sign of it, nor of her clumsy, unnecessary apology. He continued, his gentle tone unchanged, "How about you? Are you tired of dancing already?"

She snorted. "Maybe I would have been by now, if I'd actually got to _do_ any dancing."

"What happened?"

She opened her mouth to give voice to all the frustrations that had driven her to cross the line of light – and closed it again just as quickly. She had already said too much. She was not about to start complaining about the politics of finding a dance partner to this mature, dangerous and incomprehensible almost-stranger, who had _real_ problems to deal with.

So she glanced away with a minute shrug – a deflection, but not a rude one, she hoped. _You wouldn't be interested,_ the gesture said.

He read it perfectly and responded in kind: a slight tilt of the head; genuine curiosity in his gaze. _Tell me anyway._

It occurred to her then that this man was far better suited to the environment inside the palace than she or her friends would ever be. The ease with which he could make courteous small-talk with a stranger; his ability to read social mannerisms effortlessly – it was ironic that there was a ballroom full of the king's personal guests behind her, and yet it was out here, amidst shadows and stars, that she had stumbled upon perhaps the one man who could have passed for a member of the aristocracy, were he not a wanted criminal. She wondered if he was always like this; so very sincere.

"It's just…" When his earnest gaze did not relent at her childish protest, she gave in with a sigh. "It's so _difficult_. Finding someone I can safely dance with, that is. See, I have these two childhood friends, and I love them to bits, but… not quite in the same way that they love me. It would be great to dance with them, but no matter what I tell them, I just know they'd read too much into it… and probably end up at each other's throats before the night is over. And I know any of my other friends would dance with me, if I asked, but I don't want to look like I'm trying to come in between them and their… well, their significant others. Like, I've known Gray for _years_ , and we get on great as friends, but there's no way that wouldn't upset Juvia. And…"

She tailed off, but it did nothing to curtail the mild expectation in his eyes, so she continued, "There's one man I really wanted to dance with. He can be a bit dense sometimes, and I'm not entirely sure how he feels about me, but I thought it would be a good opportunity to ask. But he didn't even show up! I mean, I know formal dances really aren't his thing, and he'd never be the one to invite _me_ even if they were, but I thought he would at least turn up, for me, or… or even just because it was what everyone else was doing. But, no. He didn't, and… and this must all seem so trivial to you."

Again, that little half-smile; endlessly patient. "It has been a long time since anyone brought to me a problem that couldn't be solved by violence."

"Our guild's the opposite," she laughed. "I don't think there's anything that Natsu and the others wouldn't try to solve with violence, even something as silly as this."

"I must say, I'm surprised they haven't torn the ballroom down already," he seconded easily, and she marvelled at how comfortable he could seem, holding a conversation with someone he hardly knew.

"The Master's keeping a very close eye on them. They're trying hard not to ruin the party for the other guilds." She heaved a sigh. "If only it were that simple. You know, when I was younger, I would have given anything for the chance to dance at a ball, like a storybook princess. Now I'm here, and it's nowhere near as wonderful or as carefree as the stories made it sound. Everything has to _mean_ something. It's all so political."

"The whole ball is political," he observed neutrally. "Just by being here, you are tacitly declaring your support for the king in the wake of the disaster."

"I _do_ support the king," she pointed out, torn between defiance and unease. He noticed at once; the seriousness that had settled ever so briefly upon his face melted back into the night.

"Ah, forgive me. I did not mean to suggest that doing so was in any way wrong. If the Eclipse incident has taught us anything, it is that we need unity between the magical and secular worlds more than ever before. I only intended to point out that this whole ball is nothing more than a political stunt."

She had known the motive behind the king's generosity, of course, before avoiding having to dance with Jet and Droy without looking like she was publicly snubbing them had become top of the evening's political agenda; she bristled a little inwardly at the implication that she hadn't been able to work it out for herself. Then again, she knew he hadn't intended to be rude – he had simply been honest, as if he didn't understand how to do anything else – so she simply put on an exaggerated pout. "Ah, I knew the free banquet sounded too good to be true."

For the first time, she heard him laugh: a clear and true sound; a flash of the spirit his composed exterior concealed, which before that day she had only ever glimpsed upon the battlefield. Tilting his head again, he scrutinized her for a moment. Those eyes were the only part of him with any colour, and they shone gold in the ballroom's excess of light.

"I'm afraid I can't do anything about obligation-free food," he conceded, at last. "But if there remains a part of your childhood self who wishes to dance without fear of misunderstandings, perhaps I _can_ help."

He knelt gracefully before her, with his right hand offered to her palm-up and the other twisted across his chest. As she frowned in confusion, he looked her dead in the eye and said, "Miss McGarden, would you do me the honour of granting me the first dance?"

She stared at him.

Then she stared at him some more.

If it had been Natsu or Gray or – God forbid – Gajeel, she would have accused them of playing some horrible prank. But this man – this man she had only just met; this friend of a friend; this baffling man who was currently down on one knee and gazing up at her as if he'd never even _heard_ of embarrassment… he meant every word, didn't he?

"Okay, first, please just call me Levy," she said weakly. "And second… you really don't have to do that."

"I know. But, I'd like to. I think we understand each other. We both know that there's no meaning to this beyond dancing for its own sake."

"I, uh…"

"Ah, please forgive me." His little sheepish smile was deceptively disarming, especially when he was still holding that preposterous position like it was nothing. "I did not intend to make you uncomfortable. You can say no; I won't be offended."

"I'm not uncomfortable," she corrected him hastily. _"_ Just… surprised." With equal parts giddiness and uncertainty, she placed her hand atop his. "The honour would be all mine, Mr Fernandes."

"If you want me to call you Levy, you'll have to call me Jellal."

"Fine," she conceded, with a wry smile. As he stood in one smooth movement, she asked, "Where? Here?"

"The terrace, I thought. We'll be able to hear the music better from up there." Taking her hand properly, he escorted her back towards the stone steps. She let him lead her without protest, but he must have sensed her hesitance, because he reassured her, "It is far too bright in the ballroom for them to see us out here in the dark."

"Impossible to see across the line of light," she murmured.

"Line of…?" he echoed, mystified, but she just shook her head; there was no point dragging others into her mental metaphors. Not everyone shared her tendency to wander off into romantic prose.

Instead, she asked, "Won't there be palace guards patrolling up here?"

"Yes, but they don't come round often, and they're not subtle even when they do. I can avoid them easily, and you're a guest of the king; they won't question your presence out here."

"Still, I wouldn't want you to get caught because of me…"

"I won't get caught." A complacent and self-evident truth. "I'm very good at running away. It's what I spend most of my time doing, after all."

He had clearly intended it as a joke, and she gave a courteous laugh, but she could not stop her heartbeat from picking up a little in anxiety. For him, merely being upon palace grounds was a risk. Was he really so certain of himself? Or was he just very good at hiding his unease? She thought the former would be justified, given how many years he had successfully spent avoiding capture, but that didn't mean the latter wasn't also true.

They came to a halt a few feet away from the ballroom, with its vast windows and still-open doors and prismatic storm whirling within. This close to the celebration's heart, some of the stolen colour was beginning to leak back into the world. She could make out the blue of his hair in contrast to the darkness of his guild robes. His cheeks looked less vampiric and more natural, though they failed to show any hint of the embarrassed red she was sure lingered upon her own. His irises still shone gold. She was beginning to think that light was all their own.

Seeing her looking, he offered, "Sorry. I'm not really dressed for this."

She gestured at the superfluity of sequins and tassels adorning her own outfit, which had resumed its ominous metallic sheen with their proximity to the source of all light. The matching silver feather which the princess had slipped into her headband after she had flat-out refused to wear a tiara didn't help. "I'm not much better. I look like a cross between Quetzalcoatl and a fridge."

"A very elegant fridge," he said mildly, and she snorted again.

Their timing was almost perfect. The music drifting out to them came to an end in rapturous applause, and they, the rowdy audience's silent shadow, waited patiently for the next piece to begin. When the orchestra launched into the first few bars of a famous slow waltz, he looked at her in askance. "The Persch-style waltz – do you know it?"

"Well, umm… I've never done any ballroom dancing before, but…"

Just as before, he didn't allow her to tail off. He simply waited expectantly until she mumbled, "When I heard that we were invited to this ball, I did pick up a book from the library on traditional social dancing, but… I've never actually _done_ any of the steps; I've just read about them…"

"Show me."

Biting her lip, she called to mind the pages she had skim-read the previous night. If only translating those words and diagrams into real-world actions could be as simple with dancing as it was with her magic. Right foot first; step-step-close; a simple rhythm in time to the music. She demonstrated the basic figures once, and then again, turning through ninety degrees the second time on what she hoped was the correct beat.

When she looked up nervously, he was nodding. "That's good. Very good. You'll do fine." Her dubiousness must have shown in her expression, because he added, "Just relax, and let me lead."

"I'll probably tread on your feet a lot."

That little half-smile again. "I can take it."

He took her hand once more, and placed his other high upon her back. Her left hand went to his shoulder. She knew that much, at least. The fact that this was an honourable tradition didn't make being so close to a stranger any less awkward – but the fact that he was taking it in his stride so casually somehow _did_.

And then they were moving.

When she had first heard about her guild's invitation to the palace ball, she had assumed that she would be dancing with one of her friends – none of whom could tell a rumba from a quickstep any better than she could, and certainly none of whom had ever learnt the steps to a formal, aristocratic dance. It was mere curiosity that had driven her to the library – not that she ever needed an excuse for that, of course. In other words, she had thought, not unreasonably, that she and her partner would mostly hold hands and improvise and generally have a laugh, along with a room full of guild mages doing the same.

It turned out that nothing about the way her partner treated all this as if it was utterly unremarkable had been for show. Every three-four beat justified his quiet confidence; every step he took was performed with practised ease. He moved fractionally ahead of her, so that when she stepped in time she already knew in which direction he was taking them, and which of her limited but growing repertoire of moves she needed to respond with. Her footwork was all over the place, yet somehow those graceless – and dangerously sharp-heeled – feet never found his. When she overbalanced, strong arms held her steady. That gentle support corrected her posture so subtly that several minutes passed before she realized that the twist and arch of her torso had completely changed, so that he no longer had to lead with his hand, but could direct her far more smoothly through the movement of his entire body.

He steered them across the dark terrace, revolving slowly around the golden pools cast down by the windows, and with every step she felt herself relaxing more. It was easier for him, she realized, if she didn't try to anticipate his movements and instead let herself be drawn into them; instinct and rhythm guiding her until they were turning the simple steps with almost perfect synchronicity.

Pivoting sharply, he led with his left hand and commanded, softly, "Spin." She did so, and as she turned under his arm she realized with a jolt that she was doing this _properly:_ no improvisation, no awkwardness, no half-hearted, casual attempt at it, but real formal dancing with an experienced – no, a masterful – partner.

When they resumed closed position, she was beaming like a child – just like she had at the Fairy Godmother's first appearance, when she had realized that Cinderella was going to make it to the ball after all. Trying to convey some of the genuine awe she felt towards her partner's expertise, she ventured, "You're _really_ good at this."

Amusement sparkled in his eyes. "You sound surprised."

"It seems like an odd skill for a… well…"

"For a dark mage to have?" he guessed.

She winced. "I was going to say independent mage."

"Not many people bother with that distinction," he mused, though he did not seem to care for taking the conversation into those darker waters. "I used to be on the Magic Council. That's where I learnt all this."

"Oh! I can't believe I forgot you were on the Council! That explains _so_ much!" She shook her head; vehement disbelief at her own failure to make the connection. "No wonder you know how to act like an aristocratic gentleman – you practically _are_ one!"

" _Were_ ," he corrected, as the honest smile curled at his lips once again. "The past tense is very much needed on that one."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm impressed that you can still remember all this."

"When the Chairman himself spends weeks drilling upper-class etiquette into you because _a single public slip-up will bring shame upon the whole Council-_ " Here he let his voice take on a haughty tone, and she couldn't help grinning at it "-you tend not to forget it so easily. The fact that only hereditary peers bother with this sort of thing nowadays apparently doesn't make it any less important for councillors to know."

"Have you done this often, then?"

"A few times. I wasn't on the Council for long, but there were a handful of fundraisers and state events that required social dancing." After a moment's pause to focus on their slow, steady steps, he added, "I've even danced at the palace before. As a guest, I mean; not as… well, as whatever I am now. An interloper, perhaps."

"On the wrong side of the line," she murmured. "How come?"

"It was at a ball for the king's birthday – eight years ago, perhaps? It was a proper ball, mind, not like this one; a social event steeped in esoteric ritual and positively arcane rules of etiquette. I think he was trying to foster a closer relationship between the politics of the secular and magical worlds, so the whole of the Magic Council had to attend. Ultear and I waltzed-"

Both his words and his steps cut off so abruptly that she was convinced they had been spotted. She wasted precious seconds glancing around for non-existent guards, and by the time she thought to look back at him, his expression was completely calm – just as it had been when they first met, rather than the more emotional, less guarded front that had emerged once the waltz had begun. If not for the fact that they were stationary, she wouldn't have been able to tell that anything had disturbed him at all.

"I'm sorry," she said impulsively. "Did I say something-?"

A quick shake of his head. "It's not your fault."

After a moment's silence, she ventured, "Is it a painful memory?"

"I'm used to my memories being painful," he admitted softly.

At those words, she glanced down at the ground. She could barely begin to imagine what life was like for this man. When she thought about it, she hardly knew him at all. She did not know what had caused the momentary pain that she was sure he was hiding – especially when his statement hadn't strictly answered her question – nor what she could do about it even if she did.

But the last thing she wanted to do right now was press him, so she said, again, "I'm sorry. Do you want to stop?"

She was referring to the dance but she meant far more: did he want to be alone? Would he rather return to his guild, who understood him far better than she ever could? Did he want to sit within the garden's dark serenity, away from the light, with her or without until the moment had passed?

He heard those silent questions in a way that those she had come out here to avoid never would, and he appreciated them. It was why his next words carried far more of the self-control she had already grown accustomed to: "No, I'm alright. We can pick up with the next set, if you still want to."

"I do."

"Then we shall."

They waited for the music to change in stiff silence, neither looking at the other. Before the evening had begun, if she had been asked to imagine what it would be like to spend time alone with this impenetrable almost-stranger, she would have put good money on it involving an awkwardness just like this; closer to the guilt with which she had avoided the notice of her friends back in the ballroom of light than the surreal freedom she had felt slowly waltzing through the shadows.

She wondered where that amicable night had gone, and then she wondered why she was waiting for _him_ to bring it back. Certainly, he had borne most of the conversational burden so far, in his role as the noble gentleman, but there was no reason why that had to be the case.

Shifting from foot to foot, she said, "Earlier, you mentioned something about this not being a proper ball… what did you mean by that?"

Gold flashed momentarily curious in his eyes. But whatever had surprised him, he _was_ good at this – past-tense-Councillor or not – and he responded without hesitation to her gesture by indicating the world on the other side of the line of light. "Costumes and venue notwithstanding, this is a very informal event. It's more a gathering of friends – a party – than a formal dance hosted by and for the ancient and noble houses."

"How so?" She was aiming for the same polite curiosity with which he had invited her to talk about her problems finding a dance partner, and though she didn't have half his startlingly refined charisma, he didn't seem to mind.

"The balls that the kings and queens of old would have thrown… they have their own rules. Step into the ballroom and you enter a different world – one where the law of the land yields to antiquated etiquette and uncompromising codes of civility. Personal feelings must submit to formality. Mortal enemies, meeting anywhere else, would show their disdain with fists or insults; within that room, however, dislike may only manifest as a wrong turn in the dance, or an invitation to the fourth rather than the third set, or clever ironies hidden in old platitudes. Rivalries, relationships, allegiances… when the dance begins, they change in substance and in sentiment. _You_ change. It is a world apart from any other; distinct even from the ordinary social duels of the upper classes."

For perhaps the first time since they'd met, he was talking freely. He wasn't choosing his words carefully, like he would have done at the grand events he was describing. There was a detached sense about him, as if he wasn't fully aware of her presence; she wondered if he was remembering the past or dreaming of something else entirely.

Now he looked directly at her, and continued, "What you said earlier, about everything having to have meaning… in relation to those balls of high society, that almost-forgotten tradition, you are both right and wrong. Everything there – and I mean _everything_ – has meaning, and the ritual of the social dance more so than anything. The set routines – which it would be an irredeemable disgrace not to know – are delicately choreographed, and their order chosen meticulously. The sets a young woman would choose to dance, and the partner she would take for each – siblings, cousins, friends, suitors – weave incomprehensibly complex and mutually interacting stories into a few minutes of music.

"However… that meaning is confined entirely to the ballroom. To that world all its own. The courteous potential suitor to whom you granted your sixth set has no right to greet you on the street because of it, unless that right is explicitly granted. Outside the hall, you remain strangers. Invitations do not extend beyond those walls, and vice versa. Friendships, rivalries, aspirations, troubles… they cannot be brought into that world; they must be forged there anew. It is disconnected from reality. Yes, a high society ball is a political maelstrom, and those waters are trickier to navigate than an audience with the king or a hostage situation with a dark guild, but they are also separate from them. When you step into the ballroom, you step out of one world and into another." His gaze sharpened upon hers with a wry smile. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"I think I understand. It's just like Cinderella."

"Like…?"

"You know, the fairy tale." It was clear from his blank look that he _didn't_ know, and she remembered, far too late, that his upbringing couldn't possibly have been further from hers. "Umm… well, it's a story that involves a royal ball. I was reminded of it earlier, which is probably why… never mind. Cinderella's a girl who is mistreated by her stepfamily, until her Fairy Godmother appears and gives her a beautiful dress, glass slippers, and a carriage so that she can attend the ball at the palace. But at midnight, the magic wears off, and she has to flee. When the prince she danced with comes looking for her, he can't recognize her outside that formal environment of the ball. It's the same symbolism, isn't it? Separate worlds. He fell in love with her as they danced in one world, and thus is unable to acknowledge her in the other. Until, of course, the glass slipper breaks down the boundary and allows them their happy ending."

He frowned. "Now that you mention it, I think I do know that story – from a very long time ago. Though, I've never heard it interpreted in that way before."

"That's the beauty of symbolism," she shrugged. "Different readers, different meanings."

Literary analysis, however, was a topic she knew better than to let herself get started on. Not even Jet and Droy could feign an interest in that for more than about five minutes once she got going. Although this man had been unduly indulgent with her childish rants about dance partners, courtly manners only went so far, and the last thing she wanted was to drive him away through sheer boredom.

In an attempt to steer the conversation back towards its original subject, she added, "So, ironically, I suppose that literary symbolism is as far as possible from the precise meanings bestowed upon every action by a formal dance environment."

"Yes. It seems to me that your problem is the reverse of your Cinderella's – it's the blurring of the walls around the ballroom that is making things difficult. These old friends of yours can't understand that waltzing with them on the dancefloor doesn't mean that you return their feelings away from it."

She couldn't help wincing at the rather blunt rewording of her problem; he noted it with a sheepish chuckle. "Forgive me. I did not mean to put it so rudely."

"It's alright. It's actually rather nice being able to discuss this with someone who isn't involved in any of it… even if it is far more juvenile than the problems you usually deal with."

"Not at all. It's good to be reminded every now and then that there's more to life than running and hiding and fighting."

Impulsively, she asked, "So what does _this_ mean, then?" At his puzzled expression, she gestured between the two of them stood facing each other, ready to resume closed position as soon as the music demanded it. "You know… this _._ "

He nodded towards the ballroom, wrapped in its shroud of light. "Well, that certainly isn't a formal dance in there, and even if it was, we're not a part of it. We make our own rules on this side of the line of light." She could not conceal her surprise at how readily he had picked up her metaphor, but he did not seem to think it was anything out of the ordinary, continuing, "It means what we want it to mean, and we both agreed that that was nothing."

Because the conversation had become too serious, she allowed herself to laugh. "That's a relief. I was getting worried that granting you my first dance meant we were now engaged, or something."

He laughed too; clear and somehow fond. "No, nothing like that."

The night was overtaken by applause as the waltz finally came to an end. Glancing through the window, she sought the faces of her friends and saw only distorted colours. At least they hadn't torn the ceremonial hall down yet. That probably meant that they were having a good enough time at the party without needing to fall back on their usual pastime of channelling the gods of chaos. With an unexpected pang of pride, she wondered if any of them had danced a proper Persch-style waltz – albeit a very basic one – to the orchestra's last set.

Then the grand piano began again, with gentle, low chords as if to soothe any slumbering creatures the applause had disturbed, and that flicker of pride rightfully died away. She didn't know this piece at all. She couldn't even guess the composer or era. It wasn't another waltz – she knew that much from counting the beats – but that was where her admittedly poor knowledge of classical music ended. There were some things that couldn't be learnt from books.

He answered her unspoken question. "This is usually danced as a foxtrot. There's more… gliding, than in the Persch Waltz, and when there are turns, they're tighter and longer."

"Let's try it."

This time, he ran her through the basic freestyle figures himself; corner step and sway step and promenade and underarm turn; quiet instruction and infinite patience. When they finally resumed closed position, the orchestra was in full swing. Though he led again, she was not so far behind. The slow-slow-quick-quick pattern passed through memory and embedded itself in instinct. A mind that did not blank in battle would not do so on the dancefloor, and though she sometimes mis-stepped, or required him to translate the altered pressure of his stance into a spoken rather than an unspoken instruction, she never froze, and they weaved seamlessly between the puddles of light decorating the terrace.

Music and motion and unspoken trust – she felt as though she could drift away in it. She might have closed her eyes and done just that, if those bright irises weren't holding her so effectively; if she wasn't watching for silent cues as to their next turn.

This was what social dancing was supposed to be like. That most ancient, most complicated art; extinct in her world and preserved only in another. Not hovering awkwardly behind the only cake in the hall big enough to hide her and hoping no one wanted dessert yet, or worrying about how her dance partner was going to interpret a simple gesture of friendship. But _this_ – night-black robes and moon-silver gown twisting together in the darkness; warm and gentle hands in hers. A perfect understanding with a man she hardly knew. No one to watch, no one to judge, and no one to impress their own rules upon the two of them, out here where freedom and empathy were allowed to intertwine.

The guiding force against her upper back shifted slightly, and that was the only instruction she needed, revolving gracefully beneath his arm. Rather than falling back into position, he caught her hand as she reached automatically for his shoulder, and held it there: palms pressed together, fingers interlocked, and they continued to turn in that open stance, which her book might have labelled a low butterfly. From this distance, she could see his expression clearly – and she almost did a double-take to see her own happiness shining back at her.

She had never seen this man as anything other than solemn and sincere – she had strongly suspected that she never would – but there was a relaxed contentment to him that she had not expected. It had been there ever since she had taken to the foxtrot with him. Her joy was only natural, given that being here with this man could not be more different from the anxiety and the melancholy of the ball from which she had fled, but there was no reason for him to feel the same, when he was the one going out of his way to help her fulfil a childish dream. Was it just a part of the chivalrous act? Or…

"You miss this, don't you?" she blurted out.

Surprise trained that golden gaze upon her at once.

Her eyes widened suddenly, horrified by her own rudeness. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean-"

She tailed off lamely, biting her lip; hoping he could tell her contrition was genuine. How could she possibly ask a man who had been forced to live on the run for years, a man who would always be seen as a villain no matter how many people he saved, if he missed something so trivial as the social functions of the upper classes?

But the slight smile upon his lips didn't change, nor did he miss a single step. "I used to hate this sort of thing. To be honest, there wasn't much about being on the Council that I liked."

She supposed that matched with what little she knew about his past. If he had only infiltrated the Council for one purpose – to obtain Etherion – then it stood to reason that he hadn't enjoyed the social posturing and obsolete ritual that the role demanded. That was something she could believe… but it didn't answer the question. Hating formal dancing back then strictly entailed neither that he missed it nor didn't miss it now. He hadn't lied to her; he had simply avoided the question. And he had done it as casually as breathing.

How often had he done that since they met? This was the second time she had noticed it, but she couldn't shake the suspicion that if she had been looking out for it, that count would have been a lot higher. No wonder she could feel nothing but sincerity from him, if he lied only through omission and diverted questions he did not want to answer with related yet distinct truths.

On the verge of saying something, she paused. Wasn't he entitled to his secrets? Hadn't she already concluded that she was wrong to ask such a thoughtless question? He was only the friend of a friend, after all, holding hands with her as part of a favour – and if she let the fact that they were performing this social ritual together fool her into thinking that they were close, wouldn't she be guilty of the very same thing she had crossed that line to escape from?

Instead, she offered, "I guess not. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to pry into your past. I know that's not something you'd want to talk about with someone you hardly know."

Wariness. A flash so quick she almost missed it; quick enough to remind her that this was a man who was used to being hunted, and whose experience in both physical and political battles far outweighed hers. She noticed it only because she was watching for his response. She had offered him a way out, and he suspected it of being a trap. No wonder he lied, if he couldn't trust her even in a situation like this. No wonder he had been out here alone. Her fingers tightened automatically around his.

The expression was gone. He took the opening she offered and turned it quick and clean down a road of his own choosing, with words so soft and musical that they almost – but not quite – convinced her that she had imagined the whole episode. "Oh, I think I know you quite well by now."

"Really? I suppose you know I have no luck when it comes to romance, and that I can't tell a foxtrot from a, uh, tango, but that could describe half of my guild."

"More than that." He spun her back into closed position, stepping in time as the music descended into a slow movement, making it easier for them to hold a conversation. "I'm good at picking up on things that people don't tell me. We have to be, in our guild, if we're to have any hope of tracking down dark mages without any of the resources that the Council and legal guilds share. It's difficult fighting a whole guild with only three people…" He tailed off again, and when he took a deep breath and resumed speaking, it was brusquer than she'd ever heard from him before: "Well, I suppose it will be impossible now."

This time, she couldn't ignore the change. "Jellal, did something happen?"

"No. Everything's fine."

"You don't seem fine."

She tilted her head slightly and maintained eye contact, aiming for the polite _tell me more_ gesture that he had used upon her, but he dismissed it unhesitatingly. "Life in our guild is never easy."

If he didn't tell her, she couldn't help – but then it wasn't her business, was it? What could she do anyway, for a stranger like this?

"Okay," she shrugged. "Go on, then. Tell me something you've learnt about me this evening."

"Very well." After a moment's consideration, he said, "You like to read."

"Lots of people like to read," she demurred.

"Yes. But you make lifelong librarians look like casual readers. You're the sort of bibliophile who hides books when your closest friends come round, because they know you read a lot but if they knew quite how much, it would genuinely scare them. In fact, I would wager my freedom on your magic being something related to words or meanings."

She stared at him for a long moment. "Okay, you must have seen me use magic before."

"I haven't," he assured her, amused.

"You can sense it, then."

"I can, but its form is unfamiliar to me, so it doesn't help me put a name to it. What magic _do_ you use?"

"…Solid Script."

Not even he could resist grinning a little at that. "So, I'm spot on, then."

"Someone must have told you," she insisted.

" _You_ told me."

"When? How? Surely not just because I looked up ballroom dancing in a book, because anyone could have done that; I almost roped Lucy and Lisanna into coming with me-"

"No, not that. That just told me I was right to ask you to dance."

"Then _what?_ "

"You see symbolism everywhere," he explained calmly. "There's this metaphorical line of light that you keep referring to without realizing it, and… When I told you about formal balls earlier, you related it immediately to the story of Cinderella. Not because they both involve dancing, or anything so superficial, but because it inspired you to draw out its symbolism – unique symbolism interpreted in a way both personal to you and directly relevant to the situation you were in. That's a certain indicator of someone who not only reads a lot, but who fully appreciates what they read. And as someone who values words that much, it is unsurprising that your magic would take on a similar form, consciously or otherwise."

"…Alright, you're good, I'll admit."

"Was I right, then?"

He was more than merely _right;_ that comment about hiding books had hit a little too close to home for comfort. "On all but one thing," she grumbled. "I don't _see_ symbolism everywhere; it _is_ everywhere."

He laughed; her heart skipped at the raw delight flashing in his eyes. "I suppose you would see it that way."

There was a long moment of rustling satin and perfectly coordinated footsteps, and then she said, on impulse, "Can I have a go?"

"Certainly. Tell me something you've learnt about me. Other than the fact that I am an extraordinary dancer."

She smiled as she considered the matter. "Okay. Well, uh…" Just as when they had started to dance, his gentle patience settled her nerves so easily. It was as if he simply did not understand the concept of embarrassment, and thus would never do anything to make her feel it. That, she supposed, was another part of the formal environment that an aristocratic ball populated by uncouth guild mages would never truly achieve. "I think that you _do_ miss dancing like this."

"I don't know about that," he mused, curious rather than contradictory. "As I told you, I used to hate doing this sort of thing."

She held her ground. "You said that, yes, but it didn't strictly answer the question I put to you."

"Oh?"

"For one thing, hating it back then and missing it now aren't mutually exclusive."

"I… suppose not. Perhaps you're right." No longer was he looking at her, but at the peculiar heaven over her shoulder: merriment and liveliness and free-flowing colour; a not-quite-ball too extraordinary for her and too ordinary for him. When he spoke again, it was in that distant, almost perplexed whisper. "I really did hate it, you know. If I were inside, I'm sure I would be spending every minute trying to find an excuse to get away, just like I used to at Council events. But… sometimes I feel that I'd rather be in there and hating it than stuck out here where I'm at ease."

"I understand that very well," she murmured.

"I am impressed that you could work out something not even I knew about myself."

"I didn't really work it out, like you did. I just kind of… _felt_ it." Emboldened by her success, she asked, "Can I have another go?"

"By all means."

She took a deep breath. Then, softly, she said, "You're in pain."

His attention snapped to her at once. She perceived it as acutely as she would a quick-drawn blade, and with the same sense of danger. "No."

She shook her head. "Something has happened, and now you're in pain."

"You're wrong."

"And that's the first time you've lied to me directly."

They came to a slow stop in the darkness of the terrace. Somewhere far away, the orchestra played on, unheeded by the two who stared only at each other.

"You guessed," he stated, and it was an accusation.

"Just tell me if I'm right."

He released her hands and stepped backwards. "It doesn't count if you guess."

"But I _am_ right."

"No." Abruptly, he stepped back once more. "I need to go."

Her eyes widened. "No, wait, please-"

"I shouldn't have come here. This was a mistake."

Perhaps he shouldn't have done, but that wasn't why he was leaving. That was because of her. Because she'd ignored the warnings and pushed him too far, and in doing so, she had singlehandedly crushed the happiness and the freedom they had shared as they danced upon the terrace.

She ought to apologize, promise not to mention it again, and ask him for one more dance.

That would be the sensible thing to do. That way, they could put her mistake aside and maybe still part as friends.

And she'd lose any chance she had of reaching him.

She said, "It wasn't a guess."

"What?"

"It wasn't a guess," she repeated, and her voice was firmer now. "I worked it out. Don't you want to know how?"

"…Tell me."

"I think the music is about to change. One more dance, and I'll tell you."

"I can't. I've stayed here too long already. I don't belong in a place like this."

"This is _our_ place," she corrected him. "No one gets to decide who belongs here but us. After all, weren't you the one who said that we make our own rules on this side of the line of light?"

"I…"

"Once more. Please." When he hesitated, she added, "I would go down on one knee to ask, but I'm not sure the princess would forgive me for getting dirt all over her dress. Even though something to dull this incessant sparkling is just what it needs."

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips, and he stepped up close to her as the music changed. It was easy, she reflected, to persuade someone to do something that they already wanted to do.

"There's no need for that," he said. "It would be my honour."

"Can we do the foxtrot again? We were good at that."

He pointed out, "Traditionally, this one would be a cued round dance in the rumba style."

"Which means what, exactly?" she inquired, genuinely interested.

"A caller stands at the front and shouts out the figures, so that every couple performs the same dance in perfect synchronization, and they progress round the hall, sometimes exchanging partners as they go. Sadistic hosts often throw something like this in for the sixth or seventh set. Since they and the caller have choreographed the routine in advance, it offers an opportunity for the host to show off and trip up their rivals. I assume that the conductor is having a little joke, knowing that no one here is taking the formal aspect of the dancing seriously."

"Well, we can't really do that with just the two of us, so can we do the foxtrot steps?"

"…I suppose we can improvise."

"I'd certainly hope you can, given how readily you designated yourself an extraordinary dancer."

Laughing, he took her hand, and she twirled into their closed position with an unnecessary flourish. She let him lead them in a step pattern all their own; a dance that didn't fit neatly into any of the designated categories but blurred the lines between them. To those inside, they were invisible, and in return they paid no attention to anything but each other.

They spun across the flagstones, and with every step the tension between them faded, as if it had never been. It was just as he'd said: things were different when they danced. This was the almost-lost art of high society; the tradition clung to by noblemen and the Council; the symbolism hidden within Cinderella's fairy tale. Here, new rules guided their conduct. They had been given another language through which to communicate, and the sentiments they chose to express with it were trust and respect. With every synchronized step, their relationship was forged anew. This was another world, somehow distinct from the one in which she had reached too deep and he had pushed her away.

And that was what connected everything, wasn't it?

When they had once again become fully relaxed in each other's presence, he said, "I believe you owe me an explanation."

She did. And, what was more, it was no longer just a bluff to make him stay. She had all the pieces, and when she assembled them with logic, she found there the same conclusion that some instinctive part of her had known all along.

He was difficult to read, but not incomprehensible; not like she had first thought. He was dangerous, but not to her. And he wasn't a stranger. Not any more.

"When we first came up here to dance, you said that you weren't worried about any guards catching us, because their patrols don't come round often," she began slowly. "And you're right: we've been here for ages, and we still haven't encountered any guards. Their patrols must be very infrequent. But for you to know their timings, you must have seen at least two or three groups pass through here tonight. Therefore… you've been in the gardens for a _long_ time. Far longer than it would have taken you to work out what was going on at the palace."

She risked a glance at him, but his expression gave nothing away. He merely nodded at her to continue.

"Furthermore, you also said that you can avoid the guards easily, because they're not subtle. But I wasn't subtle either when I came down to the gardens, and you didn't avoid me, even though you couldn't be certain that I was with Fairy Tail at first. You chose to take that risk. You chose to let me see you, when you could have remained in the shadows, and I'd have soon gone back to the party none the wiser to your presence here."

Still, he said nothing.

"Why did you come here?" she continued. "Why did you linger for so long? Why did you risk approaching me? Why, of all things, did you ask me to dance – and so formally at that?"

The questions were rhetorical. "It's because of what you told me about formal dances, isn't it? You disliked being forced to attend them at the time, and yet the words with which you described them to me were fond and distant and… almost wistful. Even now – no, _especially_ now – there's something about them that you're drawn to. Proper balls exist in a world all their own, don't they? Laws and allegiances and… troubles… don't carry over."

It must have been a trick of the light. A distortion, cast by that ethereal waterfall over the ballroom door, which muffled all sound and gave the light an unreal shimmer. It had to be. He was far too strong, far too controlled, for there to be any other explanation. There was no way that the beautiful eyes locked onto hers would really be swimming with tears.

But she knew, didn't she? It couldn't be a result of that distorted light. After all, the light they shone with was all their own.

"All the time I was inside looking out, you were outside looking in," she murmured. "Something bad happened, didn't it? And you came here because you wanted to get away from it all."

"Yes," he whispered.

"Would it help to talk about it?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to try?"

"It's…" He swallowed, looked away, and continued in a small voice. "Ultear has been missing ever since the battle against the dragons. Everyone else from the city is accounted for, but… We've searched the ruins so many times, and there's nothing. It's been too long. If she could have come back to us, she would have done, and so… so, she…"

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, when he could no longer speak himself.

"You are very kind."

"I'm sorry," she said, again, uselessly, because not one of the books she had read had given her the right words for this. "I don't know what to say."

"That's alright. I don't think there's anything that can be said, in a situation like this. Just knowing that you know makes me feel a little better."

Her fingers tightened around his; he gave her hand a gentle squeeze in response. They were still moving, in a loose butterfly stance, but their steps were automatic; slow revolutions on the spot. Neither of them cared for the positions of their feet.

"If words are no good," she tried, "Is there anything I can _do?_ "

As soft and broken as his voice was, it still sounded far more real than the orchestra. "You've already done so much for me, Levy. By letting me step away from it all… and by bringing me back."

She realized, suddenly, "You couldn't cross the line of light on your own, could you? Were you hoping someone would come outside, so that you could dance?"

"That thought honestly hadn't crossed my mind. I don't think I knew why I had come here myself until you put it into words. I didn't hide from you because I had hoped you might be company, I think." He tried to smile. "Asking you to dance was… impulsive. And perhaps foolish. I think I might not have done, had I known how easily you would see through me."

"If it helps, it wasn't easy at all," she assured him, and this time, that little smile she had so quickly become fond of was whole. "And I'm very glad you did. Ask me, I mean. Thank you."

"I should be the one thanking you. For reaching out, even after I tried to push you away."

"Why didn't you say anything? If I'd known, maybe I could have helped, or…"

"I didn't want to be pitied. I still don't."

There was a harshness to those words that she had not heard from him before, but it did not scare her. She merely shook her head.

"It's not because of pity that I can understand you. And it's not about observational skills either, or being able to read people like you can. I think it's empathy. You wanted to escape from your world, and I wanted to escape from mine. But neither of us could cross over, not really, so instead we met halfway… in a world all our own."

"I think you're right." Then he laughed, and said, "You can always trust someone who reads a lot to find a poetic way of summing it up."

They were slowing down, now. There was only one thing it could mean, but she asked anyway: "Are you going to leave?"

"I have to go back to Meredy. She said she wanted to be alone, but I don't think that's what she _needs_ any more than being alone was what _I_ needed. I think, maybe, she needs someone willing to listen… someone who can understand."

"I think you're right. You may have a lot of experience escaping from palace guards, but you can't run away from everything so easily."

A faint smile. "Quite."

"Do you want me to tell the rest of my guild what happened? Or would you rather I didn't?"

"I'll tell them in my own time. I think this is something that my guild needs to deal with first."

"Okay." And she thought that he would. He seemed somehow stronger than before. Sometimes, the courage to face the world could only be found by stepping out from it for a little while.

At last, they came to a halt. She was stood with her back to the ballroom, framed by the halo of liquid decadence pouring out of those great open doors, within the light for the first time that evening. He faced her with the shadows wrapped around him; a greyscale silhouette tinged with celestial blue and vivid gold. Between them ran that line of light, the unequivocal demarcation of the ballroom from the night, the meeting point of light and darkness drawn across their clasped hands.

"Ah," she remarked. "Symbolism. I approve."

That small smile touched his lips once again. "Coincidence."

"Nothing you have done this evening has been coincidental. I don't believe for a second that you're starting now."

Releasing her, he took two paces back, his hands raised as if to concede the point to her. "Alright. You win."

After a moment, she followed, stepping out into the darkness too. She laughed aloud at his baffled expression. Given all their discussions of symbolism, he had clearly been expecting her to step back towards the ballroom's light.

"It's a symbol, not a wall," she told him, grinning. "And the great thing about symbolism is that reader interpretation is always more important than authorial intent. The line of light means whatever I interpret it to mean. Sometimes it's an impenetrable barrier separating two incompatible ways of life… and sometimes it's just where the laws of physics dictate that the chandelier's light must fall; as devoid of greater meaning as, well- as a formal dance with a man you hardly know."

"…You read too much."

"There's no such thing." Then her expression became serious again, and she said, "Official guild classifications and arbitrary positioning of shadows aside, we're not that different. If you ever want someone to talk to, please come and find me. I'll always be up for learning a little more about dancing."

"I will," he promised.

"There," she added, with a smile. "Now you have my explicit permission to greet me on the street."

"I won't forget that, Levy. Thank you."

He stepped back again, and this time, she knew better than to follow. On impulse, she extended her right hand towards him, palm down. He took it unhesitatingly, and without a trace of bashfulness; she wondered why she had expected anything else from this man. Holding her gaze until the very last moment, he bowed, raising her fingers to his lips and softly kissing her knuckles.

"Huh," she remarked, surprised.

Straightening, he gave her a charmingly bemused look. "What is it?"

"Well, I clearly don't know as much about this as you do, but… I was sure it said in that book on traditional balls that although hand-kissing happens all the time in historical romance novels, the modern custom, rare as it is, was to not actually kiss the hand. Just… to make the gesture."

"I know the custom," he told her, and his eyes sparkled. "Goodnight, Levy."

She was still staring out over the gardens long after he had disappeared into the night. She might have stayed much longer, watching and wondering in soft astonishment, if her friends hadn't come looking for her.

Somewhere far away – across that veiled line, perhaps – she could hear them calling her name. She, too, had been absent from her own world long enough. She ought to go back; she didn't want to worry her friends. Maybe Lucy and Lisanna would be interested in learning the foxtrot.

Still… she thought she might not tell them precisely what had transpired outside the ballroom that night.

Her right hand tingled. "Dammit, Jellal," she sighed. "This wasn't supposed to _mean_ anything."

And with a rueful smile, she turned on her heel and walked back across the line of light.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** And there we have it. Quite a bit longer than I intended, but I'm happy with the way it came together. As I mentioned earlier, Jellal/Levy is one of my favourite pairings, and even though the dynamic here is about as different as possible from how I've written them before, it's still very sweet, I think. If a little bit sad. Anyway, I hope I've managed to convince you of my cute little pairing! Thanks for reading! ~CS_


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